Colton turned to Roderick. “How long has he been here? Tell me the truth.”
Roderick regarded him with a bland expression. “Lord Marlsbrook has been in his residence for more than two hours. At the risk of appearing insolent, why are you askingmethat question when the man is standing before your very eyes?”
Ignoring the butler’s inquiry, Colton appeared satisfied by Roderick’s answer. He turned his focus to Benedict. “Why were you at Alexandra’s home this morning?”
“She sent a messenger for me. But I am sure you already knew that.”
“I had to confirm my source,” Colton explained. “Why did she send for you?”
“She found the map. Again, I’m sure you were aware of that.”
“You have it in your possession?” Colton pressed.
An invisible fist burrowed deep into his gut. Whatever was going on was not good. And it involved Alexandra. “No. I did not view it. Our meeting was rather brief. What in hellfire is going on?
Colton tore a hand through his hair. His features hardened to an impenetrable mask.
“Alexandra has gone missing.”
Benedict did not deceive himself that he’d never felt fear. In his life, he’d endured a fair measure of the emotion. As a lad, he’d learned to withdraw from his father’s contempt, the cutting way his sire regarded him as a scrawny runt. He’d hide away when his father stormed through the door, spewing curses after a late night of carousing and gambling, smashing porcelain plates and destroying anything within reach. Benedict would slip inside a pantry closet or simply retreat to his bedchamber to avoid the violence. Cowering under the bed or concealing himself behind some clothing in his wardrobe chest was preferable to weathering his father’s drunken rages. Once, when he’d been a boy of eight, he hadn’t been quick enough to flee the man’s path. A resounding slap across his face had been his punishment for the insolence his father had perceived in his expression. The hard blow had brought his mother running. She’d put herself between them, taking the beating to shield her only son. His terror had been very real. He still had nightmares of that brutal night.
But nothing he’d ever experienced compared to the raw fear that dug its barbed tentacles into his gut. Alexandra had disappeared. She’d departed her residence abruptly, leaving behind no indication of where she’d gone, who had accompanied her, nor any explanation for why she’d left in the middle of the day. It appeared she’d taken the professor’s research journals with her.
Now, standing in Matthew Colton’s office in his agency headquarters, Benedict fought to rein in the emotion. He had to focus his energy on rational thought. He needed to deduce what might have occurred and formulate a plan to find her. He would not allow her to become the next victim. Whatever it took, he would save her. Fear, no matter how well justified, served no purpose.
“Her housekeeper had gone to market, escorted by our driver, Bertram.” Colton tapped the nib of his fountain pen against the map of London spread out over his desk. “Alexandra’s residence is located here, on Weatherby Street. Mrs. Thomas spotted Alexandra entering a carriage that proceeded to move away from the townhouse as she and Bertram approached. The housekeeper could not get a good look at Alexandra, but she’s convinced foul play is involved. It’s not like her to simply leave without providing any notice of her plans.”
“The housekeeper provided information about the carriage,” Jennie Colton said, her voice steady despite the concern in her eyes. “The thing of it is—she might have described yours, down to the monogram on the side.”
He turned to her, forcing an evenness to his tone. “There are any number of coaches in the city that bear anMon the door.”
“Of course,” she said. “But her description of the crest beneath the initial was quite detailed. I’d say it matches yours rather precisely.”
“Are you implying I am withholding the truth?” A current of indignation simmered through him. Surely they could not believe he’d harmed Alex, then calmly returned to his townhome and sprawled out in a chair to take a rest from his exertion.
She offered a brisk shake of her head. “No, nothing of that nature. I feel entirely confident in the strength of your word.” She wove her fingers in a nervous knot before meeting his gaze. “It would appear that whoever came for Alex intended to mislead any witnesses to her departure. An observer who briefly spotted the carriage would note the most obvious details and provide a description that would lead investigators to you.”
“Why would anyone do such a thing? What you’re describing would require planning at an intricate level.”
“Indeed,” she replied as Matthew Colton looked on, his jaw hard, his features unreadable. “Matthew, do you have Alex’s analysis of those symbols at hand?”
With a nod, Colton produced the list Alex had prepared. “If you consider the symbols, it would appear that one of those indicated is not grouped with the victims,” he said.
Jennie pointed to the hieroglyph. “It is quite possible that this particular icon—which, as you know, was noted to represent Capricorn—is meant to identify the perpetrator. It would seem that someone is attempting to make it appear thatyouare the guilty party. That odious man who attacked Alex alluded to that possibility.”
Rooney’s words came back to him. A sense of horrible understanding washed over him.
“I will meet the executioner first. But Marlsbrook will not be far behind.”
“As I see it, the dying man in Egypt intended to send a clear warning,” she said, her voice taut with tension. “He may have known about the killer’s intention to make it seem you had a hand in the crimes, but that is unlikely. Rather, there are two symbols for Capricorn. One is the killer. One is a victim.” She hesitated, a brief but significant moment. “In this case, the killer might well intend that your death will come later, an innocent man wrongly convicted.”
At her words, Colton’s fist clenched at his side, as if he sought to contain his emotions. He knew all too well the misery that beset a man falsely accused of a crime. Years earlier, the former Scotland Yard detective had been set up as the culprit in his partner’s murder. Despite a jury refusing to convict him, theSinister Inspectorhad endured disgrace until his wife’s journalistic investigation had led to his final vindication. Even now, whispered innuendo still followed him. Many preferred to believe him a cold-blooded murderer who’d dodged the executioner.
A crisp knock sounded against the door. “Mr. Colton, you have a visitor,” the agency’s secretary called through the door. “A young man is here to see you. He says it’s an urgent matter. Bertram sent him.”
“By all means, send him in, Miss Everett,” Colton replied.
The messenger who’d brought the brief note from Alex earlier in the day strode through the door. He raked a hand though his overly long strands. Shifting on his feet, he could not contain his agitation. His gaze darted from Benedict to Colton and his wife.
